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  Neither were my parents. Or my wife. In fact, everyone in my family was pretty gung ho about the fact I was off to become a soldier and fight the commies over there before we had to fight them over here.

  I was raised in the heartland of America by Protestant fundamentalists. They were fine, solid people who provided me with a home full of love. My father was a mail carrier, and my mother was active in the church and taught piano part-time. My older brother became a missionary and then a pastor. Even though I had a lot of questions, I followed right along and was active in the church youth organization. When it came time for college, the logical choice—the only choice my family expected—was the Bible college affiliated with our church’s denomination. My brother had attended and graduated there, and it was where my mother had been a student for a brief period of time before I was born. So after high school I packed my bags and headed off to Kings Cross Bible College where I made it all the way through the first semester of my sophomore year.

  Asking skeptical questions was frowned upon by the faculty as well as students, and I asked lots of skeptical questions inside and outside of class. But I wasn’t expelled just for asking uncomfortable questions about the existence of God and the nature of faith, sin, and forgiveness. I also skipped chapel, smoked a pipe, and was caught eating a hamburger after hours in the campus snack shop I managed. I was quite the sinner.

  The dean called me into his office and told me I could finish taking that semester’s final exams, but at all other times I was not to “trespass” on the campus grounds. And then, without telling me, he wrote on my transcript that I was expelled “for disciplinary reasons.” That meant other colleges, by general agreement, would not accept me as a student without a semester hiatus.

  My parents were devastated by my expulsion and my apostasy. They said if I wasn’t going to “do the Lord’s work,” they could no longer financially help me get a college education because they had been giving me their tithe money. I felt badly about this, but I also felt intellectually and emotionally free for the first time in my life. But the fact remained that without God’s money, I was on my own.

  Through the intervention of one Mrs. Lenora Higgins, the woman Janice did her student teaching under, and her interest-free loan, I was eventually accepted to Western Michigan Christian College. Although a religious school, it encouraged “healthy skepticism,” had rigorous academic standards, and believed in second chances. Unfortunately, many of my Bible College course credits were rejected, and others that were accepted had no relevance to any Western Michigan degree program. So it was, essentially, back to square one.

  The healthy skepticism transformed me from an obligingly obedient good Christian boy into an aggressive agnostic high on the heady atmosphere of philosophical and literary criticism. Janice, however, remained steadfast in her conservative Christian beliefs. After graduation, we moved to Janice’s parents’ home outside of Detroit. She got a job in a local school district and found an apartment, and I reported to the Induction Center.

  ****

  Friday, Aug. 30, 1968

  Dear Janice:

  I’m hanging in there, but it’s tough. We’re training to run a mile in six minutes and carry a man our own weight one hundred yards in thirty-two seconds.

  Lieutenant Kilmore teaches hand-to-hand combat. Earlier today he promised us he’d teach us how to “break every limb on a man’s body, take a smoke break, and go back and finish the job in your own sweet time.” Nice, huh?

  We won’t have leave days to go home between Basic and AIT (Advanced Individual Training). Maybe you could come to Ft. Campbell for my graduation from Basic Training in two months. I guess they put on quite a show for the ceremony. We could have one night together.

  I need to kiss you and feel you warm against me. I need your love so very much.

  Love, Andrew

  Saturday, Aug. 31, 1968

  Dear Janice:

  It’s Saturday evening. This afternoon a sergeant and a corporal went around asking for money so they could go to the bar tonight. Each of us had to contribute fifty cents. Hope they have fun.

  Hey, I got into a discussion with a guy named Ellison from Arkansas! I told him you were born there. Ellison has a wife and baby, but he enlisted because he wanted to “kill them damn Viet Cong.” He also said he was going to kill every farmer he sees over there.

  “Why farmers?” I asked.

  “I hate f---ing farmers.” He didn’t explain why. He swears a lot.

  Another guy, standing nearby, agreed with Ellison about killing “gooks.”

  I said I wasn’t sure we should be involved in Vietnam, and I wasn’t sure “gooks” was an appropriate name for Vietnamese people. The guys were stunned. Shocked speechless. They told me I was un-American.

  Love, Andrew

  Wednesday, Sept. 4, 1968

  Dear Janice:

  Today we fired the M14 rifle for the first time. My shot pattern was pretty good.

  Punching holes in a distant target gives me a peculiar feeling of power I find difficult to describe. Maybe it’s the ability to reach out and destroy things at great distances.

  Huh. I guess what I’m talking about is killing people. I didn’t think of it that way until right now while writing this letter. I’ve been thinking about it as target practice. Even so, I’m proud of my accuracy with the M14. It takes skill and concentration.

  I’ve made a few new friends. “Friendly acquaintances” is a better description of them. I still feel like a misfit.

  You’re always on my mind—behind the stuff they keep pushing in the way. I wish we could spend a night together. I’d play with you. I’d be your Dr. Doctor and you’d be my nurse … or patient … whichever … and I’d diagnose your problem and fix it.

  Love, Andrew

  PRIVATE DUCHEK

  “You love that man you’re eye-balling?” Sergeant Akeana shouted.

  Every muscle in my body convulsed, snapping my head up, back straight, feet together, eyes wide and uncomprehending. My heart thudded like a piston in an idling diesel. But I hadn’t been caught. He wasn’t coming for me.

  It was late afternoon, and two hundred men in my basic training company sat ramrod rigid on wooden folding chairs in a barn-like building of rough cut boards and thick wooden beams. Lieutenant Nelson was lecturing about MILITARY JUSTICE from a plywood stage. He had printed those words in big block letters on the mobile chalkboard behind him.

  That morning we ran a mile as soon as we got out of bed. Two minutes for scrambled eggs later, we were “on line” picking up cigarette butts and other debris with our bare hands in the company area. Then it was on to marching, map reading, and hand-to-hand combat practice followed by a work-out on the PT field. After that, we marched back to the company area and “walked” the overhead monkey bars outside the mess hall as a pre-condition for a two-minute lunch.

  In the afternoon, we practiced disassembling our M14 rifles, followed by wall scaling, trench jumping, and rope climbing on the obstacle course. Then, thirty minutes later, physically and mentally exhausted, we sat motionless on hard wooden chairs and listened to Lieutenant Nelson deliver a stream of words as meaningful to us as the sound of water dripping in a dense fog.

  I blinked and stretched my eyes wide open, but it didn’t help. Lieutenant Nelson looked flat, like a movie actor seen from the far side of the screen. This is real, I kept telling myself, you must keep your eyes open. I glanced at the drill sergeants standing at parade rest in front of the classroom. They were scanning the assembled trainees looking for sleepers and “star gazers.” I quickly returned my gaze to Lieutenant Nelson. The sergeants had cautioned us to keep our eyes and heads “front and center” or we would be punished.

  The classroom had no windows. A fan on the stage was aimed at us, but it didn’t work. The stifling air was thick with the goatish odor of two hundred heavily perspiring trainees after a day of strenuous labor. Large black flies we dared not swat away for fear of attracting atte
ntion to ourselves buzzed our ears and bit our slimy arms and necks.

  My eyes rolled and my head bobbed. I desperately tried to stay awake by wiggling my toes and alternating my attention to the left ear and then right ear of the trainee in my line of sight to Lieutenant Nelson: Left, right, left, right.

  Then I noticed that every time I closed my eyes and opened them again the five-hundred watt electric light bulbs blazing overhead formed, on the things around me, a checkered pattern of bleached-out white and sharp-edged black that revolved around me like a circling mobile. I blinked again and concentrated on the shadows. With each blink, my eyelids grew heavier and soon I was in a darkened room sinking into a richly cushioned sofa next to Janice snuggled up against me. We were watching a movie about love and separation and … and … sleep … a little sleep … she won’t mind … she won’t know….

  Sergeant Akeana was Hispanic or maybe Hawaiian, the toughest and meanest drill instructor we had. He was short and stocky, with pock-marked pudgy cheeks and a beer belly that gave no hint of the power and commitment of a man who exercised with his trainees every day and volunteered—or so we heard—for a second tour in Vietnam after his first taste of combat. He ran across the front of the classroom and yelled at a nineteen-year-old kid near the aisle, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him to his feet. That's when I woke up.

  “Private Duchek,” he yelled, inches from the boy’s face, “I asked if you love that man you were looking at.”

  Duchek was a tall, thin, stuttering misfit with large, almond-shaped eyes. Nobody liked him because he couldn’t follow directions. He bunked over my buddy Henson on the second floor of our barracks.

  “Why were you looking at Corporal Eagan when you were supposed to be looking at Lieutenant Nelson?” shouted Akeana. “You want to go to bed with Corporal Eagan?”

  “N-n-no, Drill Sergeant.”

  “Then you hate him? Is that it?”

  Duchek violently shook his head. “No.”

  “If you don’t hate him, you must love him. Are you some kind of homo pervert?”

  “N-n-n….” Duchek’s eyes fluttered as though facing a headwind.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you? Can’t you ta-ta-talk without stuttering?”

  “N-n-no.”

  “No what?”

  “N-no, S-S-Sir.” His eyes rolled and blinked as he spoke.

  “Did you just call me Sir, Private Duchek?”

  “Y-yes, Sir.”

  “Sir? SIR? Do I look like an officer to you? Are you fucking blind, Duchek? What am I? Officer or drill sergeant?”

  Akeana’s nose was an inch from Duchek’s face. The nose-to-nose confrontation jammed the trainee’s gears. He couldn’t answer. He just moved his jaw up and down.

  “You delay much longer,” Akeana yelled in Duchek’s face, “and these men will redo this class during free time tonight. Now which is it?”

  Duchek stepped back to get more space between himself and Akeana, but he stumbled into a trainee seated behind him.

  “God damn it, you piece of dog shit, don’t you ever back away from me.” Akeana moved into Duchek’s face again. “Don’t you ever fucking back away from anything.” Akeana jabbed his index finger against the kid’s chest. “You got that trainee?”

  “Phu-phu-pheese!” Duchek’s wet lips popped saliva on Akeana’s face, but Akeana didn’t back away or wipe away the spit.

  “Did you say please? Oh, God, is he gonna cry, too? Do I see a little tear? Your ass is mine, Duchek. I’ll make you a man or have you in a dress within a week.” Akeana was still inches from Duchek’s face, “Class, what am I?”

  Two hundred of us yelled like thunder, “DRILL SERGEANT!”

  “You hear that, trainee? Do three stripes and one under tell you anything?”

  Duchek shouted, “YES, SIR.”

  We saw him recognize his mistake. His eyes got big. His body trembled.

  Akeana looked puzzled. Then he laughed. “Sir again? Good God, you’ll be doing push-ups until your fucking arms fall off. Now tell me what I am. Slowly.”

  Duchek stretched his neck and lifted his chin. He opened and closed his mouth and blinked his eyes like a baby bird waiting for mama to feed him. Nearby trainees chuckled and shook their heads.

  Akeana looked at his watch. “You took too much time, Private Duchek. At 1830 hours this company is marching back here to make up fifteen minutes of class time. If I were a trainee in this company, I’d organize a party for you tonight after Lights Out. Now sit down and pay attention to Lieutenant Nelson.”

  At 1830 hours, the beginning of our free time, Sergeant Weaver marched us back to the classroom and we recited the Rules of Military Justice over and over for fifteen minutes. When Sergeant Weaver dismissed us back at the barracks a half hour later, we had little time left to shower, clean the barracks, shine our shoes, and write letters home before Lights Out at 2100 hours.

  Twenty minutes after Lights Out, Duchek was held captive in his upper bunk by a blanket thrown over him and stretched tight by men on either side pulling down as hard as they could. Other platoon members gathered around and beat Duchek with bars of soap swung inside woolen socks. Duchek screamed the whole time. In his private, thin-walled room thirty feet away, the second-floor platoon corporal apparently didn’t hear a thing.

  In the morning, we saw black-and-blue welts over Duchek’s entire body. His eyes were red and puffy. Nobody talked to him. He wouldn’t look at us anyway.

  During our pre-breakfast run, Henson—a mild and even-tempered guy who wanted to be a dentist—told me he tried to help Duchek by making his bed for him. But instead of saying thanks, Duchek pulled the blanket off his bed and up-ended his foot locker. Henson asked me what I thought the drill instructors would do when they discovered Duchek’s mess. I said I didn’t know, but I knew there’d be another party that night.

  In the following days, Duchek’s erratic behavior continued to cost us time and privileges. He came to formation without his helmet. He didn’t button his shirt. He dropped food from his mess hall tray. The platoon was punished each time, and in turn, the platoon punished Duchek brutally after each episode.

  Duchek went nuts two weeks later. He ran around the barracks screaming and beating his head against the walls. And then he was gone. We never saw him again.

  Near the end of Basic Training, Sergeant Weaver told us that Duchek had been given a medical discharge.

  ****

  Saturday, Sept. 7, 1968

  Dear Janice:

  I’m tired of the yelling. I’m tired of hearing war and killing glorified. I’m tired of being told how much we’ll enjoy mutilating the enemy.

  The drill sergeants tell us they’ll make us professional killers in eight weeks. I’m not much of a killer in spirit, but I’m getting pretty damn good at pretending.

  I’ve learned how to cut through a man’s neck with a loop of piano wire. I’ve learned how to kick a man in the groin so when he’s groveling on the ground I can crush his skull with what they call a “heel stomp.” During bayonet practice, I run full tilt at a dummy yelling “KILL, KILL, KILL” and then ram a bayonet in its chest. This is not me. This is not who I am. I do it because if I don’t, the whole platoon will have to come back and do the exercise again—and I’d get the shit beaten out of me that night by the other trainees.

  I hate what the Army is trying to turn me into. This is awful, ugly stuff. I hate it. I loathe it. And I hate the drill instructors who teach it. I feel such rage and contempt for what’s happening here I’d be frothing at the mouth if I tried to express it all.

  Love, Andrew

  Sunday, Sept. 8, 1968

  Dear Janice:

  Roosevelt volunteered to be platoon leader. He’s a Negro and a cool head. All the Negro guys are cool and likable. Most are friendly, but they stick together a lot.

  I’m losing weight. I keep tightening my belt, but my pants have gotten baggy like a big deflated balloon.

  I just wish I were home with you
.

  I dreamed last night of the two of us playing our game in bed. Gosh we have a lot of fun together. I sometimes wonder if other people have as much fun as we do.

  Love, Andrew

  Saturday, Sept. 14, 1968

  Dear Janice:

  We had our first physical training (PT) test this morning. I carried a man one hundred yards in forty-seven seconds. I ran the “run, dodge and jump” course in twenty-five seconds. And—I’m most proud of this—I ran a mile in six minutes. But I flunked the overhead bar test. The minimum is to “walk” thirty-six bars, but my hands got sweaty and I slipped off the twenty-eighth bar.

  I got the cookies! I had as many as I wanted and then I set the box in the middle of the barracks’ floor. That’s what everybody does with their “care” packages. Moments later, I picked up the mangled box and swept up the crumbs. Needless to say the cookies were delicious.

  Love, Andrew

  Sunday, Sept. 15, 1968

  Dear Janice:

  I’m sitting in the dayroom. It’s late in a wonderful Sunday afternoon of free time. I’m relaxed and smoking my pipe.

  As I write this letter I hear rock and roll on a loud stereo, bouncing ping-pong balls, clacking billiards, a loud TV, and yelling trainees. The air is hot and humid and filled with the smell of perspiration from all the guys.

  This amount of locker-room bedlam would ordinarily drive me crazy. But the pressure of training is off my back for a while, and it’s nice to be loose and free with the other guys, many of whom have helped me on the PT field and obstacle course.

  A guy named Carson and I are on the waiting list for a game of ping-pong sometime in the next hour or two. He’s from Tennessee. Several nights ago a blackbird flew in the barracks window and Carson thought it was a sign that one of us would soon die. He was genuinely concerned.